


there is love in your body (but you can't get it out)

by defcontwo



Category: X-Factor (Comics)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She has this memory, one that she keeps close to the chest, of Terry in a blood red dress." Monet St. Croix and resurrection, friendship, love and finding herself, somehow, along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is love in your body (but you can't get it out)

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for the end of X-Factor. ah, yikes. I have never written this much Monet before, a tiiiiiiny bit nervous about it.

If Monet's being honest with herself -- and she is honest with herself, brutally so, tells herself every day that the sad sacks who lie to themselves, those are the ones she's scoffed at her whole life and the day she ends up like the Scott Summers or the Logan Howletts of the world is the day she throws her hands up and gives in -- this can't last. 

This nothingness, this ache inside of her where everything used to be, her hatred and her joy and her passion, the annoyed sound she used to make at Layla's precognitions, the way Shatterstar could always make her laugh, freely and loudly, every time -- it could have been a relief, maybe, but the longer it goes on, the more she knows that something must give. 

She came back wrong. Guido brought her back wrong and she can't be surprised. Guido didn't know anything about her, not even a little bit, not in the end. 

Just another man who pushed his hopes and dreams and ill-fated delusions onto a woman who didn't want or deserve them. The oldest story in the book. 

Now here she is, letting another one do it all over again, burying herself amongst dirty sheets and bright lights, letting Darwin love her when she doesn't, couldn't, love him back. 

She knows what she has to do. She knows _who_ she has to talk to. But. 

She still remembers. She still remembers the hurt, sharp and close, the way she'd swallowed it and buried it down, pretended it wasn't there and covered it up with her usual attitude. The heartbreak and burnt pride that comes from love realized too little, too late. And even though she is wrong, now, even though she does not feel that hurt anymore, she still recalls it like a second skin and it stays her hand. 

So, instead she travels. 

\--- 

She expects the punch, the claws wrapped around her throat -- was looking forward to them, actually, grins through it and lets a laugh escape her lips. She's always liked a good fight, a good opponent, and Wolfsbane's always given as good as she gets and then some. 

"Typical Sinclair, always gotta let the beast out first." 

"What are yeh? Demon? Malevolent spirit? What?" Rahne demands, and Monet would scoff, drag it out, but there is something rough and drawn out about Rahne, something that Monet recognizes the shape of. It's devastation and grief, the shape of someone who's had their entire world torn to pieces and she softens, in spite of herself. 

"Guido brought me back from the dead," Monet says. "Take a good long sniff, Wolfsbane, I'd bet I read the same as I always have, am I right?" 

Rahne shifts back, the wolf receding as she releases Monet. "Aye. Guido did _what?_ How?" 

Monet laughs and it's almost convincing. "Haven't you heard? He's the King of Hell now." 

"It suits him, then," Rahne snaps out, and Monet likes that, likes that Rahne sees no need to hold on to old sentiments. Not with this. 

"C'mon, then," Rahne calls out, already making for the kitchen. "Let me put the kettle on." 

"You believe me just like that?" 

"No," Rahne says, "I don't believe a word out of yer mouth, honestly, but if I'm gonna die, I'd like a cuppa first, if it's all the same to you, thanks." 

Monet's hands fly up to her throat, unbidden, rubbing at phantom pains, picturing scratch marks. She shakes herself before heading after Rahne, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table of Rahne's quaint cottage just off of the good John Maddox's church. 

"So, what? Back from the dead and I'm yer first visit?" Rahne says, puttering around in the tiny kitchen, pulling a box of Earl Grey down from a cupboard. 

"No, I was in Las Vegas with Darwin first. I fucked him," Monet says, liking the sharpness of the word, the bluntness of it, how easily it calls to mind vivid images that can't be softened, romanticized. Likes the way Rahne's shoulders stiffen too, the way she visibly shakes herself. She may play at being a new woman, at being changed by life's rougher experiences but once a puritan, always a self-righteous puritan. 

"Must not've been any good if I'm yer next port of call. Not interested, by the way." 

Monet wants to laugh but it dies in her throat, swallowed by the thought that, no, _you're not the redhead I want_. "Don't flatter yourself, Sinclair." 

Rahne sets the mugs of tea on the table with a thunk, sliding one over to Monet. Monet takes a deep sip, not caring at how the tea hasn't quite brewed yet, not caring at how it scalds her mouth. 

"This is what you're doing with your life now, Sinclair? Preaching?" 

"Aye," Rahne says, taking a sip of her own tea. 

"Waste of talents, if you ask me." 

"I help people," Rahne says simply. 

"Yeah and you could help people a lot more if you were doing something that's actually useful instead of spouting some Bible-ordained shaming that will send them home to feel bad about themselves. You were one of us, Sinclair, you saved lives -- "

"Aye, and I killed just about as many as I saved while I was at it, didn't I? Lost about just as much as I gained, too, sometimes more. Yeh may think that life is still the only thing worth havin' but I don't. We were murderers and thieves playin' at heroes and we got exactly what we deserved for it, _M_." 

Rahne's eyes are wild, face bright red and she's clutching at the tabletop now, claws digging into wood and Monet is flushed all over, wants to throw another punch, wants to tear this entire fucking picturesque cottage to pieces and walk away from the ruin. 

But. 

"And here I thought coming to see you would be worthless, Sinclair," Monet says. "But it wasn't. Now I have a picture perfect example of what not to do." 

Rahne scoffs. "Now I know it really is you, you great big prissy diva. Finish your tea and then get the hell out of my home." 

Monet laughs so hard she snorts tea out her nose and it is quite possibly the least graceful moment of her life but well, Sinclair's a woman of God, now. 

She probably won't judge her for it.

\---

She finds Longshot sitting on a curb in San Diego, digging through an empty wallet and frowning prettily, attracting attention from passerby's. Monet lets out a loud, gusty sigh, shaking her head. What a ridiculous creature. 

"Nice haircut," she calls out. 

Longshot looks up, bangs swinging into his eyes. "You think so?" 

Monet hums. "It's all the rage right now." 

"I don't suppose you'd have a couple of dollars for a taco?" Longshot asks, peering up at her. "I'd try and get some myself but I have a bad feeling that might be pressing my luck." Well. That explains the empty wallet and the hang-dog expression. 

"Bunch of freeloaders, the whole lot of you," Monet grumbles, already walking towards the taco stand. She doesn't know why she's here. She and Longshot were never close. He'd always annoyed her, all that bright optimism, the mostly put-upon obliviousness because it _was_ mostly put-upon, that much she knows. He played into people's expectations of him as an outsider, as a man way too good looking for his own well-being. 'Star did it too but it wasn't half as grating with him because he wasn't nearly as good at it. 'Star has a ruthlessness to him borne of a life hard-lived that shines through even the best facade. 

She has no patience for people who dumb themselves down. 

And yet, here she is, maybe out of curiosity more than anything else.

She orders tacos, digging the money out of her pockets and barely even wrinkles her nose at the greasy, run-down truck because she hasn't eaten yet today and she's just hungry enough to let it go, just this once. 

She brings them over to Longshot, sitting down next to him on the curb, legs crossed out in front of her before she hands him his taco. He nods his thanks before digging in, wolfing the taco down in record time and now Monet really does wrinkle her nose. 

"Do you have no sense of decorum?" 

"It was good, thanks," he says, mumbling through food still. 

"You don't have any questions for me?" 

"Like what?" Longshot asks, brow furrowing. Monet swallows down the urge to punch him in the arm. 

"Like how I'm here, alive? The first thing Sinclair did was try to claw all the way through me because she thought I was some sort of demon."

Longshot shrugs. "You weren't here. You're here now. You'll leave, you'll join another team, probably, you might die again. You might not. It happens." 

"How very zen," Monet drawls. "You don't worry about what happens to you or anyone else at all, do you?" 

"I am at peace with the fact that there will always be things outside of the control of my luck. There's a difference," Longshot says, quiet and sure and there is a serious set to him that she has never seen before that loosens something, makes Monet fold in on herself, crossing her arms over her chest. 

"Well, that's one way to look at it," she mutters, more to herself than anything else. 

They sit there for a long time, her in silence while Longshot chatters on, pointing out people on the sidewalk and telling her a long, detailed anecdote about his hairdresser and there are points when she knows she should laugh, smile, react but she doesn't, just lets it wash over her like white noise and he doesn't seem to mind, doesn't seem to expect a response which is comforting in its own way. Before she knows it, the sun is setting above them, and she doesn't know if this helped but hell, it didn't hurt. 

That makes a nice change. 

\--- 

The door swings open before she can knock on it, a very pregnant and very rosy-cheeked Layla Miller leaning against the door jamb. 

"You're late." 

Monet rolls her eyes, reflexively. Of course. "Did you know that everything smells like manure around here?" 

"Hello, Monet, welcome back from the dead, how nice of you to pay me a visit. I'm so glad you enjoy my lovely home." 

"I guess I don't have to explain anything to you, do I." 

Layla shakes her head, that small, secretive smile like the Cheshire Cat crossing her face. "Maybe, maybe not."

"Now you're just doing that to piss me off." 

"Maybe, maybe not," Layla says, prim as anything and Monet takes a deep breath, tells herself she can't hit a pregnant woman. 

"Madrox isn't here, is he," Monet asks. Part of her wants to see him just to make sure he's okay but the greater part of her doesn't care to. Dealing with Madrox is tiring at her best times and she's hardly at that. 

"No, I sent him out to the Farmer's Market," Layla says and Monet would bet anything that that was purposeful, and she sags down into the quilted couch of the living room, letting herself relax. She'd nod her thanks but Layla doesn't need it and they're both more comfortable this way, ignoring and working around it. 

"Is it still true?" Monet bursts out. 

Layla tilts her head, looking genuinely puzzled for once and that's its own relief. She likes that she lives in a world where things can still surprise Layla Miller. 

"You told me once that I would become the best friend you've ever had. Is that still true?"

Layla reaches across the coffee table between them and Monet stiffens but Layla pays her no mind, placing one hand around Monet's clutched fingers. "Monet, that will always be true. No wrong turn in time changes that." 

"Huh." 

"Are you okay with that?"

She is and she isn't. She doesn't like the idea of fate, of knowing some part of her life before it comes to pass. It is too much like being controlled, like being at the mercy of something greater than herself and there is nothing that turns her stomach more than that. 

And Layla is, in many ways, the very manifestation of this concept, of the notion that there are greater forces that they all must fall prey to and it makes Monet's skin crawl with how much she _hates_ it because she vowed a long time ago that no one else would ever have that kind of control over her again. 

But. She hasn't missed the way Layla looks, sometimes, like her skin is stretched too tight and everything gets to be a bit too much. The weight of everything that Layla knows, all the many different paths and the consequences of choosing, it presses down on her always, in every second of every day and it shows and the truth of it is, Monet is long past the point of fooling herself into believing that she can hold it against her. 

Monet shakes her head, smiling ruefully, a look that is equal parts exasperation and fondness. "I guess I don't hate it." 

"Jamie should be back soon. You might want to get out of here if you're bent on avoiding his dumb ass." 

"It's not avoiding," Monet says. "But I came here for you. It's none of his business." 

Layla leans forward, wrapping Monet in a hug and she'd fight it but she gets the sense that this is something that Layla's been wanting to do for a long, long time and it feels good, Layla is warm and close and she cares, cares in a way that is not simple but still asks for nothing in return. 

"I know you won't listen to me if I tell you to talk to _her_ next. But I do have something to give you for when you do," Layla says, pulling away to dig a crumpled sheet of paper out of her dress pocket. 

"Give my best to the boys," Layla says and Monet huffs. 

"It's really annoying when you do that, you know that, right?"

"I know," Layla says, a twinkle in her eye that shines a little brighter than it used to. She's happier, now, more in control of the life that she's set out for herself. It suits her, Monet has to admit, for all that she'd never want it for herself. 

"Of course you do. You're Layla Miller, you know stuff," Monet says, speaking in a high, falsetto voice. 

"Damn right, St. Croix." 

Monet takes the slip of paper from Layla and tucks it into the inner pocket of her uniform, saving it for later. She'll read it when she's ready. 

She's not ready yet. 

\--- 

She has this memory, one that she keeps close to the chest, of Terry in a blood red dress that Monet bought for her that time they went shopping in Milan because they couldn't go to Paris not now, not ever, Paris was ruined for them. Terry dancing in that dress, all the reds mixing together, bold and bright -- a water bottle in one hand and red hair everywhere like a halo around her. She closes her eyes and she sees Terry abandoning the water bottle and grasping both of Monet's hands and pulling her close, remembers how it was well past 3 AM in one of Manhattan's glitziest nightclubs and they were surrounded by the rich and the beautiful but Monet couldn't keep her eyes off of Terry, not for a single second, not for the whole night. 

And when they'd stumbled home, holding hands and both of them carrying their long since shucked off heels, they'd giggled the whole way and almost woken up the whole house when they came stomping in through the front door of X-Factor HQ. There'd been a moment, right there, in the dim light of the kitchen when Terry had tugged her close in a loose hug and whispered into Monet's ear, " _thanks, I needed that_ ," and they were so close, close enough to kiss and it wasn't until that very moment when Monet realized that that's what she'd been wanting all night but then in typical New York fashion, a car backfired outside and the moment was gone, shattered, and Terry stepped back, giving a small slip of a smile, a flush high on her freckled, pale cheeks and walked into her room, shutting the door firmly behind her and Monet was left leaning against the kitchen counter, the ghost of Terry's warmth close to her and a crashing realization that she'd gone and done the stupidest fucking thing she could have done all over again. 

She'd made herself vulnerable. 

She'd fallen in love. 

\--- 

The streets of Mexico City are busy, busier than New York, busier than she's seen in a good, long time and it's somehow equal parts claustrophobic and comforting, walking through so many people who don't look twice at her as she winds her way to the apartment building on the corner, letting herself in and climbing to the top floor and she almost walks right in but thinks better of it and knocks twice, sharply. 

The door swings open and she has a few seconds to register features that are tall, broad and topped with bright, ginger hair before she's engulfed in a hug and it's the second time in as many days and not exactly good for her image as a standoffish diva but she buries her face in 'Star's shoulder anyways. He smells like laundry detergent and that grease he uses to polish his swords. 

"You don't seem too surprised to see me," Monet says, when they break away at last. "That wasn't exactly high quality warrior vigilance." 

'Star shrugs sheepishly, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "Layla called five minutes ago." 

"I'm still not really sure why we're taking her word as law, though," Rictor calls out from where he's standing at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables. 

"I see you still have appalling taste in men," Monet says, pointedly ignoring Rictor. "You're lucky I don't hold it against you too much." 

"I take it back, only you could say something filled with that much disdain, M," Rictor says and Monet has to laugh. 

"Apparently that's a popular opinion. Can we talk?" Monet says, turning back to 'Star and he nods, grabbing a set of keys off the kitchen table and pocketing them before motioning to the door. 

They walk out into the streets, letting people move and jostle them as they amble at a steady pace for several minutes. 'Star doesn't say anything. She wasn't expecting him to. 

"I came back wrong," she says at last. "Everything -- it's as if everything is muted. I remember -- I remember the ghost of things. I remember how I used to feel, how I think I should feel but it's like the dial's been turned down." 

"But." 

"But -- but if I get it all back. It's not -- Layla thinks that it's because I don't want to feel. But that's not --it's because I'm afraid that I'll get it all back and I won't be any different." 

'Star doesn't falter in his steps but he does throw her a quizzical look. "Why are you telling _me_ this?"

It's a good question. It's not as if he's the best person to go to when you want to puzzle out your emotions but then again, maybe that's exactly why she did it. 

Because she doesn't need or want someone else to puzzle it out for her. 

Maybe now she's ready. 

Monet leans over, bumping 'Star's shoulder with her own. "Don't question me, Shattybuns." 

'Star groans. "I am going to eviscerate whoever told you about that." 

Monet tosses him an amused look. "It was Rictor one night when he was drunk. Really, you're going to kill your boyfriend?" 

'Star rolls his eyes and she'd bet anything that he's planning some sort of revenge, regardless. 

They keep walking, the cool, early evening breeze filling her lungs, making her feel like maybe this will turn out all right after all. 

They don't say anything else. They don't have to. 

\--- 

Cassidy Keep is the same as it always is, untouched by time. There are no living, breathing, mortal members of the Cassidy family but still it stands, dark and solid against a grey, gloomy sky. 

Monet shivers, in spite of herself, and wishes she'd thought to bring a jacket. 

But it's beautiful country. She can see why Terry would come here when she needed time for herself, when she needed to get her head on straight. 

Monet sits down in the middle of the grass and pulls out the crumpled sheet of paper Layla gave her. She takes a breath before reading out the words. She stumbles over the pronunciation, at first, before she gets the hang of it and she knows it's working from the way the sky has darkened, from the way wind blows up and around her like her own private storm and she's at the heart of it and her words gain in strength and by the end, she's almost shouting and then she quiets down and whispers, "Terry, I need help," and the wind stops, abruptly and in its place -- Terry, sitting cross-legged across from her. 

Or -- something great and beautiful and foreign that is Terry-shaped, something borne of magic and shadows and the shape of life and death, adorned with black feathers and crackling with power that sends a shiver down Monet's spine. She'd known, of course, but she hadn't really _known_ until right now exactly what it meant. 

Theresa Cassidy, the Morrigan. 

She's the most beautiful thing Monet's ever seen. 

"Monet St. Croix, asking for help? Never thought I'd see the day," Terry says and eases into a smile that is warm and familiar and is both strange and comforting amongst everything else. 

She smells like ozone and freshly cut grass and none of it makes any sense but Monet wants to kiss her so she does, leans up and presses her lips to Terry's and it's not long before Terry is more than meeting her halfway, kissing her back like she's been wanting this for almost as long as Monet has. Monet digs her hair in Terry's bright red hair and Terry's fingers are digging into Monet's hips hard enough to bruise but she could care less because all she can feel and hear and see and touch is Terry, Terry, Terry, and it's like everything is in technicolor after spending so long in shades of grey. 

Monet breaks away with a gasp. "You have to be kidding me. Healed with a kiss?" 

Terry shakes her head, amused. Her hands are still firmly on Monet's hips and Monet's all but crawled into Terry's lap and every place where they're touching feels both too warm and not warm enough. "It never would have worked if you hadn't already made the decision yourself. If you weren't ready, it would have just been a kiss. I'm the conduit, nothing more." 

"Great, so the solution came from within, like that's any less rom-com awful," Monet mutters and Terry laughs and it sounds like the crashing of thunder so Monet kisses her again, this time with purpose, with finesse, biting at Terry's lip and drawing her even closer. 

"Stay with me," Monet says, hating herself a little for how needy it sounds but she let Terry walk away that night in the kitchen and she's regretted it ever since, so she's going to say it, pride be damned. 

"You know that I can't." 

Monet shakes her head. "No. Show me the Morrigan rule book that says you can't. If you're bound to this, I'll find a way." 

"I know you will," Terry says. "You always do. There isn't a thing in this world you can't accomplish once you set your mind to it. But not yet. There are things that I need to do. I know in my bones that this won't be for forever." 

Monet huffs. "So, you're asking me to wait? Monet St. Croix doesn't wait, I would have thought you'd gotten that memo by now. 

Terry smiles and it's a little indulgent. "I think sometimes you do. When you want to. When it's worth it." 

"Yeah, well, I'm not going to like it." 

"I'm asking you to have some faith, Monet. Can you do that?" 

Faith has -- faith has always been a tricky, unknowable thing for her because she can't have faith in anything that she can't see, touch, set alight with her own two hands. But faith in Terry? That's easier than she'd like to admit. 

"Maybe but I won't like it very much either." 

"If it helps, I won't like it much either," Terry says and then they're kissing again and there are words crawling their way up, all the things she never said and should have asked but for now, Monet lets them go. 

They've got time, now. 

\--- 

Her lips sting and there are bruises up and down her neck, down under her collar, and above all, she can still feel Terry, sure and close, lips ghosting across the shell of her ear. 

_Just pray for me and I will come._


End file.
